


Chance and Chemistry

by Catchclaw



Series: Stray No More [6]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Female Alphas, Knotting, M/M, Misha's Wisdom/BS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-18
Updated: 2012-11-18
Packaged: 2017-11-18 23:51:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/566702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At first, after Jen and Jay get together, everything goes to shit. But, in time, Misha teaches himself how to deal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chance and Chemistry

At first, everything goes to shit.

The day after his on-set spaz, Jen shows up self-satisfied and cool, his fingers lost in Jay’s, unabashed. He’s calm in a way you've never seen before, even in the moments after he’s fucked you: body spent, sure, but brain still whirring. Counting the seconds until “Fuck off” would become a polite "I've got an early call." Until he could turn away from you without seeming like an ass and pretend to drift off as you dressed. To be sleeping when you slipped out. Right.

But he's not like that now, now that he's put his chips on Jay. Now that Jay's doubled down on him, kicked Gen to the discard pile and put it all on red, on Jen.

Huh. No more World Series of Poker for you. Gotta find something else to sleep to.

So the boys are happy, stupid blissful, and the crew's just confused for the most part, whispering and raising eyebrows and nodding towards Gen's grim fury, in scene and out.

Two of the grips make eyes at you, as if to say: "What gives?"

And you cross your eyes back and shrug. Pretend to be as clueless as the rest.

Good thing about heartbreak: that goddess doesn’t show on your face.

Part of you is furious, sure. But that part you sort of get. Can channel and use as Cas, fuel for your blackwinged righteous swoop, your smiting motherfucker, yes. It's good. Kinda like method but more therapeutic. More pure.

But there's part of you that's smashed, that's a thousand beads burnt across the floor of your trailer, bits you've got to spin together gold and hold inside your trenchcoat—Cas'—every time you go on set.

The way he looks at Jay—fuck. It burns.

He's so goddamn pleased and _centered_ and it's there, right out in the open like it makes him feel safe, like Jay does, and some days you're not sure that your heart will survive. Every time your eyes meet his in a scene, in that moment just before you give his cue, you see Jen, the real one you didn't know you hadn't met, and fuck if he isn't divine, rolled up in all that content, smelling like sex and cotton candy.

For the first few weeks, you wish you had permission to act like Gen is. Wish everyone knew how much of your heart Jen held in his fist—how much you pushed there, made him carry against his will—so you could wallow and scowl and stay locked in your trailer between set-ups. Could have an excuse to hide, not to see.

But you don't. So you can't. And that's that.

At home, they get it. They dig.

Vicki buys you Smuttynose beer, the kind that makes you nostalgic for that summer in Vermont, and warns the other chickens to stay away. She holds your neck in her palm while you paint, draws thumbnails over your spine at dinner and kisses you when you weep. Lets you hide your tears in her body, her mouth. She tells you dirty jokes after you've come, gets you grinning while you're still between her thighs and drops smiles over your face in return.

The others, Matthew and Rachel and whoever the new guy is—Mark? Marty? she's got a thing for M names lately—they steer clear unless you seek them out. Play omega to your beta when you need it, need them. Stay away quiet and busy when you don't.

So on set, you're a professional. An Actor with a capital whatfor, and that's cool. You're loud and mysterious, like you should be, like you are, with everybody except Vicki. And Jen.

So it causes shit for a while, this new thing with Jen and Jay. The end of Jay and Gen.

But then Kripke starts seeing the dailies, and Singer too, and they're puppy and rainbows amazing, apparently, so good that the suits come back on set, this time to ogle, to praise, to pay fucking obeisance, because it's clear to them that Kripke's been holding out, that they're sitting on a perfect landmine of a show, one wired with Jen and Jay in its fucking DNA, and there’s gold in that there chemistry, there is.

You overhear this one afternoon, perched in your chair and waiting for the lights to get set ready go, while Red Tie and Open Collar buzz behind you. 

“Emmys,” one says, dreamy.

“Fuck Emmys,” the other snorts. “Two-year pickup. Anchor for the goddamn network. Demographics to make the gods weep. Have you seen the way they stare at each other, Charlie? I’m telling you: there’s cash in every close-up.”

And you have to laugh at that. Fold your face behind your wing and grin because where have these greyfaces been for the past three years, anyway? Jesus. None of this is fucking new. 

Jay and Jen, they’ve always lit up like Christmas on screen, like sparklers in a room of mirrors, those two.

And that's the moment, some five weeks on from J-day (as you may have called it in your diary, natch) that it all rings true. That the bells cut through your fog and general resistance to the universe's waves and say: hey! Jackass. This is the way it had to be, because it's way it's always been. Just nobody knew it, somehow.

And all right, that strikes you as a little too simple. A little too neat for your complicated tastes, to be sure.

But it's warm coffee over your soulpatch, that thought. It helps. Makes you feel less like a scorch mark in the earth and more like a weather vane, something grounded and thick that lets the zap run right through and then passes the energy along. Leaves you untouched but fired up, recharged, reborn.

Ok, even you can see that's bullshit. But still.

But Mark (Marty?) is impressed when you spout this over spareribs. And Rachel. Even Matt pantos a wink when he passes you the wine. Now Vicki doesn't buy it, no; gives you a look over her glass, but that's why you love her. Why you stay. Why whatever happens, whomever you're dumb enough to fall for, you don't stray. Because she knows when to roll her eyes and punch you in the arm. When to reach out quick and hold on. When to smack you in the ass and get on with it already, Mish. When to roll over and push you out of bed, towards the crib, and stay.

In the middle of the night, when it's still, so fucking still that your heart sounds like a hammer, you carry your kid to the kitchen. Lean against the counter and do a drum circle on his back. Try to tempt him back into sleep. Never wants a bottle, this one. Doesn't want to eat at three in the morning, no. 

He just wants you. 

Wants you to hold him to your ear and tell him stories about people he'll never meet, thank the gods. To sing him songs about the ones he will, the ones he'll call uncle someday. You tell him about Jen and Jay and say: that's what's out there for you, sweetheart. Someone who loves you that much, who'll cash in chance and chemistry just to hold you, like I am. Who'll adore you and give you shit in equal parts. Who won't look past your failings, no, but who'll know better than anybody the sweet that balances the bitter and keep you safe, kid, yes. He will. Or she. Whatever makes you happy, baby. That's what I want for you.

You hold him to your chest and press kisses into his not-hair, not yet. Slow your breathing to match his tiny heart and drift, counting the stars over Vancouver that flutter fast and deep.

Your son? He's unimpressed by the universe's gifts, the splendor she wields despite the city lights. But that's ok. He’ll learn.

Besides.

His soft hitch against your throat. Trusting baby weight in your hands. Gifts to Hera, to Zeus, just as much as the stars.

You and the little West, you sleep. Together, even, you dream of red and black, of les jeux sont fait, of play. Games of chance and chemistry.

Time to reshuffle the deck.

**Author's Note:**

> Titles for all the stories in this series borrowed with love from the songs of _Guys and Dolls_.


End file.
